


I Don't Get Parties Or Getting High (I Just Get Low Most of the Time)

by trickstartmonk



Series: brendon-centric! [1]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Crushes, Friendship/Love, Gen, High School, M/M, Mormonism, Musicians, POV Brendon Urie, Panic! at the Disco References, Pre-Panic!, Pre-Split, independent!brendon, kicked out, kinda gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 06:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18565393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickstartmonk/pseuds/trickstartmonk
Summary: Brendon thinks it's all just another mark against his parents' God, while Ryan and Spencer keep him from falling off the deep end.





	I Don't Get Parties Or Getting High (I Just Get Low Most of the Time)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from McCafferty, the song BeachBoy

When he was a kid, Brendon thought love was real.

He thought that Disney was right, in some sense at least, and that love was everywhere. Of course, he did recognize that it probably wasn’t as exaggerated as they make it out to be, most likely more subtle in everyday life.

He saw his parents kiss, and that was love. Eyes closed and smiling. He saw his siblings pick on him and each other, and that was love too. They mocked with grins and happy eyes. His eldest brother would cuff him on the side of the head and laugh, low and brotherly, “Hey there,” before family dinners. His sister would kick his shins.

He believed in love.

But he got older. And the love he had watched all his life in everyone he knew began to lose its rose tint. When his parents kissed it was no longer true love; it was an old relationship. They were just comfortable, familiar with each other. His siblings began to look older, less wise, more feral and scared the way people do when they become adults. He began to realize that with time, people do not grow into anything righteous as he once assumed.

People become terrified when they realize nothing is as they once believed.

All people do. Brendon knows he did as well.

It’s a part of growing up, he believes.

And grow up, he did.

 

 

Brendon went to middle school and got shoved around. He knew the kids that pushed him had no love to spare, and didn’t offer any either. He stopped giving a shit and trying to fit in, and the day he did, he finally lived.

He asked a pretty girl out, Miranda, and smiled with all his teeth when she said yes. He lost his virginity quite early, he proudly admits to a group of friends at 2am. They laugh and clap him on the back. He ducks his head and passes the joint. He doesn’t think he loved her.

Then there’s that whole thing with religion. He wants to, really, but can’t ignore it any longer.

He just doesn’t believe in the god he’s supposed to. Or any for that matter.

He thinks he maybe stopped when he was little, like eight. Maybe when he bopped his head along to Foo Fighters in a department store and his dad tugged on him, harsh, and said, “The Lord doesn’t approve of music like that, Brendon.” He remembers thinking what kind of boring deity doesn’t like drums? What God doesn’t enjoy some guitar and screaming? He didn’t like any Lord that didn’t like Kurt Cobain.

He first stopped loving a god who couldn’t appreciate the thing he loved most; music.

Then, he stopped loving a god because he hated what it stood for.

Church was never all that fun for him. He didn’t want to sit still. He wanted to move and run and laugh, but most importantly, he wanted to play. He has a guitar, he practices constantly, and that wasn’t even all of it. Before that, there was the piano. Next he wants to do drums, maybe go back to the trumpet. He likes to sing, and he’d rather do any of those things than sit and listen to his church elders sing off-key about a merciless god.

In choir, he thrives.

But after very little time, he’s restless again. Bored.

He’s started paying attention to lyrics, you see, and he much rather prefers the angstier ones. Drugs, sex, fame, anger. Not “love”, the Lord, and forgiveness.

It’s just one more mark against his parents’ God.

 

 

High school's not so bad, but maybe not so great, either.

He barely gets by at school. He sells adderall because he hates taking it himself. Plus, the cash is kind of nice in his pocket. He’s got almost-friends that smoke up with him and brag, but no one truly close to him. He tells himself it’s fine. He’s too weird and talkative to hold down anyone steadily. His grades are somehow always slipping.

His teachers all admonish him, all except his music instructor. In band, he plays drums --he’s the best in advanced Jazz-- and he feels right there. No one glares when he taps his foot extra hard or excitedly; in music it’s even encouraged.

He’s got some friends there too, and in Guitar class he knows a kid named Brent something. Brent’s in a _real_ band in his garage. He looks kinda greasy and boring, but he’s okay conversation sometimes. Brent plays bass and likes to compliment Brendon’s playing. Brendon always shrugs.

He likes playing, is all. He doesn’t think he’s anything special.

When Brent shakes his head and offers, “Hey, do you wanna audition to be a guitarist in my band?” Brendon stares dumbly before nodding.

Sure, hey, why not? He’s got nothing better to do anyway, and he’s starting to realize music is really the only thing he’s ever wanted to actually do.

He calls his mom and tells her he’ll be home for dinner. She starts huffing immediately, asking who and where and why. She’s a good mom, a sweet Mormon woman who probably loves him the most in the world, but he doesn’t want to explain.

These days her eyes look far too weary for his liking. He knows its his fault. He’s not the ideal son, nor up to the Urie’s standards.

‘ _I made dinner, Brendon, what about family bondi-_ ’’

He hangs up on her.

 

Brent gives him a ride, explains that they’re missing a guitarist now and that Brendon’s good enough. Brendon puts his guitar in the backseat, lying it down gently. Brent looks sideways at him and says, “Spencer and Ryan are weird, but like. I don’t know. I think you’ll be fine.” Brendon is a little nervous, but it’s nothing he can’t handle so he stays quiet and looks out the window. He wiggles his toes in his shoes and hopes this is worth it. Worth anything.

They pull up to a nice suburban house and Brent motions for Brendon to follow him through the big white door. He leads him down to the basement, and Brendon wonders vaguely if this is a trap, if someone’s going to mug him or kill him, but shoves the thought away when he sees two pairs of eyes watching his every movement. He tightens his grip on his guitar, just a little.

Brendon takes a breath and squares his shoulders, tries to look commanding. He probably just looks dumb.

The first boy, a little pudgy with the bluest eyes Brendon’s ever seen, steps forward first. He introduces himself as ‘Spencer’. He offers a hand, which Brendon takes and neither of them look away as they shake. Brendon is reminded of a dog, that idea that you’re never to look away first because it shows submission, and he smiles big because it’s kind of funny.

Spencer smiles back. Like he’s confused but maybe a little delighted by Brendon’s enthusiasm. It’s sort of impressively bright, and Brendon wonders why he didn’t start with that. _Spencer could win wars with his teeth_ , he thinks, and maybe Spencer was trying to be intimidating the same way Brendon was. Neither have looked away yet. Their hands are still clasped.

Someone behind Spencer coughs, and that must be the other one. Spencer shuffles away and Brendon’s eyes land on a pair of hazel caramel about six feet away. His assumption is correct when the guy mumbles, “m’ Ryan,” and waves. He’s got what looks to be an emo haircut and a permanent frown in place, one eye obstructed by uneven bangs. He doesn’t look friendly, offers no smiles or reassuring looks, and Brendon tries not to cower in some minuscule way.

Brendon nods back at him and shoves his hands in his pockets. He lifts his chin and clenches his jaw, straightens his back.

He probably already looks stupid enough.

Brent smiles at Brendon and nods at Spencer. Spencer, weirdly enough, looks to Ryan with an eyebrow raised. Ryan shrugs with one shoulder, and Spencer whips his head to Brendon, smiling like the sun.

“So,” he says, “you play guitar?”

Brendon is still in awe from the silent exchange but tries to nod in a decently convincing manner. Brent elbows him and grins.

“Brendon plays other stuff, too.”

Ryan eyes him carefully and doesn’t look away when Brendon returns his gaze.

Spencer looks excited. “Seriously?”

Brendon nods again. “Yeah, uh. Piano, guitar, yeah.” He looks at Spencer and darts his eyes to the drum kit in the corner. He avoids mentioning that particular talent, but guesses from Ryan’s amused expression that he knows anyway. He ducks his head.

Ryan speaks up, eyes sparking a bit. “Play us something?” He asks, gesturing to Brendon’s acoustic by the couch.

Brendon grabs it, fingers already moving to position. He sits there, the cushion caving in under him and shifts a little until he’s comfortable. He asks, “Suggestions?”

Spencer laughs, “Anything you have memorized.”

He plays Third Eye Blind because Brent mentioned they used to cover those songs.

After that, it’s all just muscle memory. He stares at the ground instead of his fingers on the fretboard and can see Spencer’s foot tap in beat with him through his peripheral. He holds tight onto the pick and grips the guitar’s neck a little harder than usual. He hums the melody to himself.

Ryan, Spencer, and Brent all nod encouragingly to his strumming, bobbing along and mouthing the words Brendon refuses to sing.

When he gets to Semi-charmed Life, he can’t help but belt the lyrics. He darts his eyes up, gaging their reactions, and is relieved by their smiles. Brent and Spencer help on the “do-do-doo, do-do-do-doo’s” while Ryan throws his head back laughing. Brendon knows he’s being funny and exaggerating, _but it’s worth it_ , he thinks as he watches the happy pale line of Ryan’s throat.

When he finishes the song, Brendon’s cheeks hurt from smiling. He carefully sets the guitar down and watches his hands flex against his lap.

Spencer stands back with Ryan. Brendon sees him shuffle over from the corner of his eye, these funny little staggering movements that seem ancient. Familiar. He thinks the two are maybe too close, maybe something strange that he hadn’t initially picked up on and still says nothing.

Even if they are strange, Brendon bets he’s weirder. He always is.

It’s Spencer, of course it’s Spencer, who invites Brendon back for another practice on Thursday. He doesn’t say Brendon’s in the band or anything, but Brendon notes Brent’s smug face and Ryan’s gleaming eyes.

He says, “Cool.”

Everything gets a little blurry after that.

Things move too fast in Brendon’s opinion; one day he’s playing guitar and the next he’s lead singer.

All because Ryan’s voice cracked on his lyrics, and Brendon wasn’t really thinking when he continued where Ryan left off. Ryan had been sick, a cold, this horrible scratchy cough tearing apart his vocal cords, and Brendon had been singing back-up. Ryan stopped singing, and Brendon just leaned forward a little and sang Ryan’s part so no one had to stop again. He thought he was being helpful. After the verse, he looked up, only then realizing the silence in the room.

“Uh. Sorry. ” He said with wide eyes.

Ryan was watching him with a funny expression playing at his lips. Voice hoarse, he said, “Keep singing.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and said nothing else.

Brendon had only been to two practices at the time, and from what he understood of the band dynamics, you did _not_ disagree with Ryan. Unless, maybe you were Spencer. Spencer had a free pass on everything Ryan Ross, Brendon mused. And anyway, it was _their_ band when it came down to it. (Even Brent hadn’t been there the whole time, instead having been recruited like Brendon just a year earlier.)

Brendon really didn’t have any reason or right to challenge his new position. He was just lucky to be there.

And so Brendon started singing. He didn’t have the guts to tell Ryan ‘no’ or even ask why. After a bit, he actually sort of liked the way Ryan would look breathless when Brendon hit the run just right, or the way Spencer would laugh, golden and giddy, when Brendon had a good idea. He liked the way Brent would give him a thumbs up during practice, and the way Ryan took to watching his every movement. He liked how Spencer and Ryan stood together, literally connected at the hips, and their brotherly banter.

Brendon looks at his band. He thinks this is maybe the diluted version of love he had believed in as a kid, and feels an odd sense of childish relief. He had forgotten about love for awhile there.

He’s lucky to be there, with them. He knows this. For the first time since the world took to a shitty-grey color in his mind’s eye, he’s seen love. Real love. The true, twisty, red, pink, achy type. Between two almost-brothers, their friend, himself, and all of them together. There’s love. God, he’s such a sap.

(He gave up the Church awhile ago, but he never forgot the sense of community his family felt with other members. Brendon just kind of assumed he’d never feel it again. He’s glad he did.)

Months pass and Brendon barely keeps track.

Soon, the band is practically all Brendon has going for him. School’s shitty, he’s barely passing anything, the Smoothie Hut hours are grating, and it’s getting harder and harder to smile at his friends at school. He’s tired, exhausted, even, but there’s nothing he can do to alleviate any stress. He’s stuck in a horrible rut that no one can bring him out of. Not playing, not singing, not religion, not Ryan and Spencer’s weekly movie night/sleepover. Nothing. He wonders if this is the slow and painful stretch of death, then mentally kicks himself for his melodramatic-ism.

But, he supposes, at least his mother stops looking so disappointingly at him. That’s sort of nice. Every disapproving glance kills him a little, and it’s almost relieving not to face her judgement all the time. She no longer looks at him like he’s the weakest and most pathetic link.

In fact, she stops looking at him all together.

His father told him to choose between BYU or the Mission life; Brendon said, “I’ve got a band.”

 

“ _I don’t care_ _what_ _you have unless it’s going to further your future_.”

“I believe in my band, dad.”

“ _Brendon Boyd Urie. I will say it one more time. BYU or your Mission_.”

“Neither.”

“ _If you are under my roof, you will choose._ ”

 

Brendon sleeps at a friend’s that night. And the next. The third night homeless is on a Friday. Meaning he bums a shower, heads to school, works his shift, and checks his overnight bag for clean clothes. He has none. (He fled the house in somewhat of a hurry.)

He sighs and keeps his black work shirt on, even though the strawberry and banana smell on it makes him feel nauseous. He gets a ride from Spencer, they’re kind of friends now, and tries to look as bouncy and hyper as he normally is.

He jumps in Spencer’s car and shoves his bag out of sight. Spencer watches him but doesn’t mention it.

“So,” he claps his hands, “what movie tonight?” He smiles and hopes it looks real.

Spencer doesn’t turn when he speaks, eyes instead on the road. “I don’t know.” He wrinkles his nose, “Ryan’s picking.”

“Oh, cool.”

Spencer raises a brow. “ _Cool_? Dude,” he laughs, “you’re like, the first person to complain when it’s Ryan’s turn. Who are you?”

Brendon chuckles and it sounds hollow to his own ears, but Spencer doesn’t distinguish its odd note. He shrugs and tries with faux cheerfulness, “Maybe I’ve changed.”

Spencer glances at him from the corner of his eye, chin still pointed at the road. He gets a tiny crease in his brow, like he’s thinking for a second, but the expression is wiped away within the second. Just a subtle twitch, maybe.

He takes a shallow breath, “Yeah.” His voice feels all too serious.

Brendon stares out the window for the rest of the ride, The Smashing Pumpkins playing quietly on the back speakers. He wonders if he imagined the way Spencer sobered up or if Spencer actually picked up on any tiny clues.

He hopes to someone’s, _anyone’s_ God, that he didn’t.

 

 

Once at Spencer’s, Brendon waves to two blushing twins, known formerly as Spencer’s little sisters. It’s funny that they think he’s cute or something. He’s flattered. He winks at them and gives a tiny wave, the same one he gives to his little cousins, and laughs when they giggle. He finds Spencer watching him and asks ‘what’ but only gets a half shrug as means of an answer.

Alright, then.

Spencer shoos the pair out of the living room and he and Brendon sprawl out on the vacated couches. Brendon lies with his head on the floor and his feet up in the air. His spine is slouched against the couch, and he stares at Spencer upside down. Spencer looks funny like this, less stern and more goofy.

It’s a good look on him.

Spencer opens his mouth and then closes it, looking almost curious. “What’s up?” He finally settles on.

Brendon frowns at the question. He pretends not to hear the weirdly paternal color in Spencer’s voice. He plays stupid, “I don’t know. You?”

Spencer smiles indulgently. Like he’s talking to a kid with _issues_ or something. He’s about to try again when the door opens. Ryan. Spencer looks frustrated for a moment, then steels a look of delight for his best friend. He stands up to greet Ryan, casting an odd look over his shoulder at Brendon as the two pat each other’s backs. Brendon pretends not to notice.

Ryan pulls away after a second and smiles at Brendon. It’s sweet and gentle and Brendon returns one of a similar intensity without thinking about it, still upside down. Spencer quietly huffs a laugh.

Neither boy looks away.

Ryan wonders aloud where the popcorn is, and Spencer hip-checks him on the way to the kitchen. “Oh, sor- _ry_ , your Highness.”

Ryan laughs quietly, “I’ll help, jeez.” He looks over to Brendon, “You gonna help too? Or sit there until your head pops.”

Brendon considers his options. Finally, he rolls off and away from the couch, his body making a rather loud _thump_ as he hits the floor. He staggers with them to the kitchen, poking Ryan’s rib on the way in. “Shut up,” he grins.

Ryan flashes his teeth. “You’d hate if I stopped talking.”

Brendon bats at him, and grabs a bowl in the top right cabinet for Spencer.

The thing is, Ryan’s not wrong. Brendon thought Ryan hated him for a few months when they met, what with way he shrugged off Brendon’s hugs and either said nothing, or something too cutting when they talked. Brendon thought, well _obviously_ Ryan disliked him. He never fully smiled or laughed like Spencer did with him, and it was always Spencer that invited him to hang out.

It wasn’t until Brendon pulled Spencer aside and told him that, ‘ _hey, I don’t need your pity friendship, I know Ryan hates me, It’s cool_ ’ and Spencer gave him a blank look, saying, “Ryan doesn’t hate you. He’s the one who brought up inviting you in the first place. And pity?” He laughed, “We don’t pity you, asshole. You’re our friend,” that Brendon actually believed him.

Plus, Brendon thinks, Ryan is just a lot more subtle and shy about things than Brendon’s used to dealing with. He’s used to the Urie bear-hugs, frowns, and pouty lips he’s seen in his siblings. Ryan is just as expressive, just in a more careful and nuanced way.

(Brendon has learned how to distinguish Ryan’s eyebrow twitches and the way he narrows his eyes when he wants to argue but won’t. Brendon now knows Ryan actually _likes_ to cuddle, but never makes the first move. If Brendon leans over and rests his forehead in the crook of Ryan’s neck, Ryan turns to melted butter and shifts closer. Brendon knows that Ryan doesn’t mind his hugs, just gets awkward because he doesn’t receive them enough.)

Yeah, understanding Ryan is like a different language. The rules aren’t exactly clear cut or anything, but as Ryan takes the popcorn bag away from Spencer just to shove it in the microwave himself, laughing the entire time, Brendon thinks he’s doing pretty good with picking up his cues.

Honestly, he’s just glad he’s not hated or anything, Brendon thinks as he leans back against the kitchen counter. He likes them, and Brendon hopes to keep them. At least a little longer. He closes his eyes and smells synthetic hot butter. Next to him, someone moves towards him. He opens one eye. It’s Ryan.

Ryan grins and presses in close. He ducks his head and shoves his nose against the collar of Brendon’s shirt, breathing in deeply. He snickers, “Dude, you smell like smoothies.” His arms are bracketing Brendon, pressing his back into the counter behind him.

Brendon’s throat goes dry in response to their proximity. He laughs awkwardly, “Uh, yeah? My job?”

Ryan guffaws, but doesn’t move away.

Spencer watches them and smiles, more to himself than either Ryan or Brendon. He walks by and flicks Ryan in the back, “God, get a room, you two.” His eyes are laughing when they meet Brendon’s.

Brendon flushes a hot red.

Ryan just flips him off and jokes though. “We have one, asshole.” His nose drags up Brendon’s throat, almost distracting.

Brendon swallows. “Do kitchens count as rooms?” It’s a stupid question, but Ryan still ponders it. He pulls away enough to look at Brendon’s face, his hips still lightly pressing against Brendon’s.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t they?”

Brendon shrugs and closes his eyes again. He’s still unreasonably tired. Ryan’s skin is warm where his bare arms touch Brendon’s.

The microwave beeps.

 

 

With the popcorn done and the smell wafting through the house, they all settle back in the living room. Brendon grabs drinks, Ryan holds the bowl, and Spencer goes to the linen closet for extra pillows and blankets. They make their usual fort-type thing and Ryan goes to rifle through the DVD’s.

“Ryan,” Spencer moans, “if you put on Moulin Rouge one more time I’ll dump the popcorn kernels into your bed.” He smiles sweetly and shoves his hand to the bottom of the bowl to grab some, dropping them one by one ominously back into the popcorn.

Ryan looks affronted.

“I thought you _liked_ Moulin Rouge,” he accuses. He squints his eyes menacingly and points a threatening finger. “Traitor.”

Spencer ducks the pillow Ryan throws at him. He chants, “Fight Club! Fight Club! Fight Club!”

Brendon hides his smile in his blanket.

Ryan ignores Spencer’s frantic chorus and focuses his attention on Brendon. He asks, “What about you?” He sends Spencer a comically wary looks and whispers, “Any ideas?”

Brendon shrugs. Mostly he just wants to pass out. He plays with the loose stitches on the pillow in his lap. “I don’t know. Anything.”

Spencer hollers, “Wait, that’s favoritism! No fair.” He glares at Ryan and Ryan shrugs in a ‘what-can-you-do’ way.

Ryan turns back around and busies himself with his decision.

Brendon sort of drifts between states of consciousness after that. His eyes are open, but he’s definitely dreaming. Little tiny snippets of sleepy visions. For a second he thinks he hears his mom’s voice, but when he glances around it’s only Spencer singing along to the theme music. It doesn’t hurt.

He’s pretty alert after that.

Ryan goes to the bathroom and Brendon watches the screen blankly. He doesn’t register anything. His eyelids feel awfully heavy. He’s kind of hungry, too. The popcorn is the only thing he’s eaten besides two smoothies today, fuck. He wonders if his mom is still crying, those horrible little sniffles, or if his dad even cares. He hopes she isn’t, he hopes he does. He wonders if they’re thinking about him.

He wonders if they’re relieved he’s gone.

He senses a pair of eyes on him and turns slowly, vision skating over the room. Spencer stares at him from under his mound of blankets. He mumbles, “Are you okay?” and Brendon waits a beat too long before nodding. He’s too exhausted --embarrassed too-- to talk about anything anyway. Even if he wanted to. Which he really, really doesn’t. Brendon stares at the moving scenes in front of them and can’t make the frown on his face go away.

He hopes his parents are relieved. It sucks to worry about someone, he gets that now. He can’t stop thinking about them and as much as he’d love to feel wanted by their concern, he mostly wouldn’t wish this feeling on anyone. Especially not them.

Ryan comes back and Brendon expects him to sit back on the floor or with Spencer on the other couch, like usual. He does neither. Instead, he climbs up with Brendon. Brendon’s lying about half the length of the couch, his body curled up and somewhat upright against the arm, his head propped up by his his hand and pillow. Ryan sits on the other half, legs Indian-style.

He leans sideways into Brendon, and Brendon’s first thought is to get up, because Ryan must want this couch instead. He stands up quickly, his blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, and shuffles to the spot on the floor below his spot. There. Ryan can have a better spot. Ryan, however, looks almost panicked.

He grabs Brendon’s arm and says, “Wai- what?”

Brendon smiles up at him reassuringly. The floor isn’t too bad. He shrugs Ryan’s grip off and shakes his head, the universal sign for ‘no-big-deal’. He’s sleepy enough that he avoids talking for fear of a garbled explanation, but not so sleepy that he misses Ryan’s (disappointed?) look.

Brendon snuggles into his blanket and grabs the pillow two feet away, the one Ryan had thrown earlier. It’s ratty and smells a lot like Spencer’s laundry detergent. Brendon buries his face into it and realizes with a start that he’s started to associate that smell with _home_ and _safe_.

His heart skips a beat.

That’s not. No, that’s not what this is. Any of it. Brendon is, fuck, he’s _lucky_ to be here, to be included in this, he knows. It’s not lost on him that Brent is never invited to these, or even their mini-hang outs after band practice. He knows him and Ryan are kind of emotionally closer than maybe any of Brendon’s other friends, and he knows he’s not imagining the brotherly way Spencer treats him.

Brendon is lucky to be here. He thinks about his parents who he hasn’t seen for days and the way Spencer’s mom, Ginger, offers him rides and food and a place to stay always, all the time, for no reason other than she likes him. He thinks about the way Spencer and Ryan move about each other, so familiar with one another, and the strange way they make space for Brendon without a second thought.

He thinks the pillow under him smells like _home_ , smells _safe_ , and the horrible way it makes him feel _loved._

He sits up abruptly and tries to tune into the movie.

He realizes after a second, that Ryan put on Cinderella, even though he thinks it’s a stupid movie. Brendon remembers the way he mentioned once, offhand, that his sister would put it on when anyone was sad or sick in the Urie household, that it was a family tradition. He remembers the way Spencer laughed and the way Ryan nodded solemnly, like it was special information, and can’t fucking breathe.

Ryan hates Disney (except for Aladdin), and Spencer says it gives him a headache because he’s been tortured by his little sisters for too many years.

They put it on for _him_ and Brendon wants to disappear or hide or something equally childish.

He doesn’t realize he’s breathing weird until Spencer slides off the couch and sits down beside him. Spencer says, “Hey,” and goes to rub soothing circles on Brendon’s back. Brendon jumps and looks around with wild eyes.

Ryan looks down at him and his expression is soft, like he’s trying to calm a feral animal. Brendon wonders if that’s what he looks like, because that’s certainly what he _feels_ like. He stands quickly and lets the blanket drop. He doesn’t look back down at either of them when he mumbles, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”

He bolts away and closes the bathroom door softly. He paces frantically and tries to breathe, back and forth, in and out.

He looks in the mirror and stares into his eyes.They look scared and his chest is moving too erratically to be considered anything but panicked.

He closes his eyes. Breathes in. He wills his hands to unclench where they’re gripping the counter and forces his muscles to relax, every one of them from his face to his pinky toes.

He doesn’t know how long he’s in there, but when he comes out, Spencer and Ryan are both on the couch where he was first sitting. He smiles at them and is surprised when it feels sort of real. He goes to sit back on the floor, but both Ryan and Spencer shake their heads. Ryan goes to grab him again, this time gentler but more persistent.

Brendon lets himself be pulled down between them. He’s too tired to fight or talk, so he settles closest to Ryan, who’s still tugging him. Spencer grabs blankets and covers them all, piling the fabric. It’s actually kind of uncomfortably hot, but Brendon’s body has taken to these almost-shivers whenever he inhales, so he lets himself relax in the heat.

He knows he should explain something, _anything_ to them, but can’t. His face rests on Ryan’s shoulder, and Ryan sets his head on top of Brendon’s, talking into his ear.

If Brendon heard Ryan’s tone of voice some odd months ago, he’d have thought the monotone implied apathy or indifference. Now, he recognizes a subtle, tiny, almost unrecognizable note of reassurance.

He sleeps with Ryan’s voice murmuring stories about Pete Wentz; a music-guru guy Ryan’s been emailing about their music and about the demos they posted online. Ryan says, “I’ll get us out of here,” and Brendon believes him.

On screen, she sings, “ _So this is love,_ ” and Spencer hums the following ‘do-do-do-doooo’ softly.

Brendon dreams about seeing his parents again, and in the morning will remember to go talk to them. He needs to see them, to explain if nothing else. Some clothes would be nice, too.

When he wakes up, still pressed against Ryan will Spencer snoring in his other ear, he muses that the band is really the only concrete thing in his life.

 _This_ , he thinks, _is what I want._

 

**Author's Note:**

> does anyone like this? just feeling this one out, lemme know if anyone enjoyed it or would like a continuation! if anyone has any feedback, suggestions, or ideas for what pairing/genre they'd like to see next, comment below! as always, thanks for reading :))


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